Saturday 12 November 2016

LAF (Literature Across Frontiers): Adrian Grima

(Adrian Grima is among the three European poets travelling across India, thanks to Literature Across Frontiers. On Nov 15, I'll moderate a panel discussion featuring the three alongside Anamika and Sampurna Chattarji. 6PM @India International Centre)


Adrian Grima (Malta,1968) is a prizewinning author of poetry collections and short stories for adults and adolescents in Maltese. He has read his poetry in many countries in the Mediterranean and Europe, and also in Australia, Nicaragua, and Bali and Makassar in Indonesia. Collections of his poetry in translation have appeared in English, German, Italian and French: The Tragedy of the Elephant (2005), Deciphered Lips (Northern Ireland, 2013), Adrian Grima (Berlin, 2010), La coda della freccia (Italy, 2011), and Ici arrivent les mouettes (2012). His most recent publication is Klin u Kapriċċi Oħra (KKM 2015) (Rosemary and other indulgences), his third solo collection of poems in Maltese.

Grima is also one of the founders of the cultural NGO Inzijamed and its Malta Mediaterranean Literature Festival, established in 2006. He teaches literature in the Department of Maltese at the University of Malta. He has written and edited a number of academic works, and read and published papers in many countries, focusing mainly on literature in the Mediterranean. 

Thursday 10 November 2016

LAF's Poetry Connection: Yolanda Castaño

Literature Across Frontiers (LAF) is bringing three European poets to India for a series of workshops, discussions and poetry readings. The first leg of this tour will take place at the Chandigarh Literature Festival, which starts tomorrow (11 Nov). The three poets -- Yolanda Castaño, Brane Mozetič and Adrian Grima -- will be in conversation with local poets Monika Kumar (Hindi) and Surjit Patar (Punjabi).

The Delhi leg of the tour will feature 
Castaño, Mozetič and Grima in conversation with the Hindi poet Anamika as well as the English poet Sampurna Chattarji. The conversation will be moderated by yours truly: so in the lead-up to the conversation (Nov 15, 6 PM, venue: India International Centre) I will post something about one or more of these poets everyday, along with a sample of their work. Here's the first of this series of blog posts, about the Spanish poet Yolanda Castaño:




  
Yolanda Castaño (Santiago de Compostela, Spain 1977) has been publishing poetry for over twenty years.  Her six collections have been awarded prizes such as The Spanish Critics’ Award, Espiral Maior, Ojo Crítico ― for the best published book by a young Spanish poet ―, Novacaixagalicia, “Writer of the Year” ―by the Galician Federation of Bookshops― and she was a finalist in the National Poetry Prize. Bilingual editions (Galician-Spanish) of her most recent collections have been published by Visor Libros ―Libro de la Egoísta (2006), Profundidad de Campo (2009) and La segunda lengua (2014). A dynamic cultural activist, Castaño has directed cultural projects with Galician and international poets since 2009: poetry translation workshops, an annual poetry festival, a monthly cycle of readings ―Galician Critics’ Prize for the best cultural initiative in 2014― apart from programming poetry events for other institutions. A poetry multimedia artist, she produced events around Europe and America, as well as in Tunisia, China and Japan. She worked for TV for several years ― Mestre Mateo Prize to the best TV Communicator in 2005 ― and contributed articles to a number of journals. Her writing has been translated into twenty different languages and she has edited and translated contemporary poets into Galician and Spanish. Castaño has also published five poetry books for children.



LISTEN AND REPEAT: UN PAXARO, UNHA BARBA

The entire sky is squatting. An intransitive thirst.

To speak in a foreign tongue
is like dressing in borrowed clothing.

Helga confuses the meanings of land and landscape.
(What kind of person would you be in another language?)

You, sometimes, you make me notice that
this vocal
string instrument of mine
sings out of tune.

In the light well of language,
prosody gets hooked
on my dress.

I will tell you something about my problems with tongues:
there are things that I cannot pronounce.

Like when I observe you seated and I see only
a chair–
ceci n'est pas une chaise.
A camera obscura projecting onto gray matter.

To pronounce: if the poem is
an exorcism, a phase transition ; some humor
solidifies to abandon us.

That's how phonation is, enthalpy.

But you are absolutely right:
my vocalism leaves
much to be desired.

(If I stop looking at your teeth
I won't understand anything of what you say.)

The sky shrinks. Helga smiles in italics.

And I learn to differentiate between a beard and a bird
beyond one's taking flight
if I try to trap it
between my hands.

[Translated by Lawrence Schimel as part of the collection The Second Tongue (2014)]


Tuesday 27 September 2016

The manifold pleasures of listening: Amit Chaudhuri’s “A Strange and Sublime Address”

In the 2001 preface to the Collected Stories of Saul Bellow, his wife Janis described how her husband called her a “genius noticer”. She later attributed the same quality to Bellow, after seeing the legendary author at work. “When he is on to a story, his capacity for hearing and absorbing details expands exponentially.” That work-in-progress became The Bellarosa Connection, a 102-page novella which, while not being a masterpiece, does showcase quite a bit of his close attention to detail, as well as other Bellow hallmarks: musical, rhythmic prose, startlingly funny, unpredictable metaphors, serial digression and not much by the way of plot.

Although he is a very different kind of writer from Bellow, all of the above can be safely said about Amit Chaudhuri’s 1991 debut novel, A Strange and Sublime Address, almost equally slim at 109 pages. The novel, an account of two summer vacations spent in Calcutta by its protagonist, a young boy named Sandeep, quite deliberately avoids conventional plotting, and chooses instead to focus on something else: capturing a time and a place in history, not through pretentious allegories, attentionseeking linguistic experiments or other contrived literary hi-jinks, but through a meticulously crafted, synaesthetic brand of prose which is like no other in contemporary Indian writing in English.

A departure from the constraints of a plot-driven narrative isn’t merely a stylistic or formal device for Chaudhuri; the author is making a larger statement here, about the wisdom of “jotting down the irrelevances and digressions that make up lives and the life of a city, rather than a good story.” Chaudhuri isn’t denying us the ‘real’ story just because he doesn’t like to write that way, it is his authorial belief that one way to reconstruct the things which matter about a character or a group of people, is through the ones which apparently don’t. In the words of the author himself, “The ‘real’ story, with its beginning, middle and conclusion, would never be told, because it did not exist.”

The novel starts off with a string of absolutely gorgeous passages about Calcutta, the most confounding megapolis of them all; random slices of life, which are tenderly evocative without once descending into cliché or banality. Chaudhuri’s unique gift as a novelist is perhaps this; to weave the elements of memory, perception and sensual experience into narrative in a quiet, unobtrusive manner. An old grey Ambassador, (which is the car we know as the ubiquitous yellow Calcutta taxi) wages daily battles with its owner, Chhotomama, Sandeep’s uncle. “It was battered like an old cardboard box, and the needles on the dials on its dashboard never changed direction, the futile compasses always pointing north. When it ran, the engine and the ramshackle body of the car combined to make a grating, earthy noise, like a drunk man cracking an obscene joke in a guttural dialect and laughing at it at the same time.” The smell of mustard oil, another quintessential Bengali preoccupation, triggers an affectionate tribute, at once culturally accurate and aesthetically superior.

In Bengal, both tamarind and babies are soaked in mustard-oil, and then left upon a mat on the terrace to absorb the morning sun. The tamarind is left out till it dries up and shrivels into an inimitable flavour and a ripe old age; but the babies are brought in before it gets too hot, and then bathed in cool water. With their frantic miniature limbs and their brown, shining bodies, they look like little koi fish caught from the Hooghly river, struggling into life.”

The above passage is a particularly apt example of that distinct quality possessed by Chaudhuri’s writing: a profound stillness, an almost preternatural calm as the author trains his eye on the city and the infinite little stories to be told therein. To convey an entire experience with any reasonable degree of authenticity (or even to share but a moment of it with all its emotional and sensual implications) requires an act of authorial alchemy, for lack of a better term. The writer has to transcend the limitations of his medium, in order to say, convey a very precise hue of color, or just how tangy a lemon felt using nothing but words; as an author, one has to bridge that gap between the written word and the sensory self. At their best, Chaudhuri’s descriptions leave the reader in a state of suspended animation; their beauty depends on, and is enriched by, the reader’s ease of visualization.

To that end, it helps that Chaudhuri pays more attention to sounds than most writers. (In addition to writing and teaching Comparative Literature, the author is also an acclaimed singer in the Hindustani classical tradition, most recently composing and performing an experimental music ensemble called This Is Not Fusion worldwide) In Chaudhuri’s world, the radio “babbles like the local idiot”, while the pages of the newspaper “crackle with festive intensity”. Clearly, the author is inviting us to listen very closely indeed. Equally attuned to the sounds of his own language, he gleefully declares, “Chhotomama’s shelves were full of these books: Sarat Chandra, Tarashankar, Rabindranath; like the names of wines, the names of these authors; an entire generation had been drunk with these names.”

In Sandeep, Chaudhuri has a protagonist who, like the author, is a Bengali kid growing up in Bombay. Coming from a megacity with a very different set of sensibilities, Sandeep views Calcutta as an object of limitless wonder. Being Bengali, and not actually from Kolkata, gives him a tantalizing mixture of the outsider’s amused detachment at the human circus out there, and the instinctive sympathy of someone who has a latent connection with the culture. Consider this passage about a Sikh taxi driver’s attempts at speaking Bangla:

The Sikh spoke a courteous Bengali to the women, made still more courteous and comically elaborate by the fact that it was spoken in a broad Hindustani accent and according to the rules of Hindustani grammar. This gave the gentle, rounded sounds of the Bengali language a masculine openheartedness; it even made the language smell of onions and chappatis. Flattered and impressed, Mamima and Sandeep’s mother giggled like schoolgirls.”

When Sandeep notices the comically accented Bangla spoken by the driver, one wonders if he mightn’t perhaps be thinking of his own failure to read or write the language spoken by his family. The aforementioned “distance” (whether cultural or otherwise) between Sandeep and his uncle’s family also helps him to pick up on subtle hints about Chhotomama’s financial problems, or his grandmother Chhordimoni’s true nature, which she cloaks with a crabby, uninviting exterior. In his gradual, unhurried development of plot using steady accumulation of details, Chaudhuri reminds one of the Japanese-English writer Kazuo Ishiguro, who, like Chaudhuri has had his fair share of detractors using the “nothing-happens-for-so-long” line of attack.

Amit Chaudhuri is a rare breed indeed among English-language writers from India. His works have nothing in common with the type of postcolonial narratives which took off from where Rushdie ended. There is none of the terribly compulsive wordplay, much of it involving Indian English, that hydra-headed monster. Far from rejecting the social realism and the incorrigibly sensuous side of the great modernists like D.H. Lawrence, (Chaudhuri is also the author of a dissertation on Lawrence’s poetry) in favour of pastiche, magical realist or allegorical settings; Chaudhuri whole-heartedly embraces these virtues of the masters of yore. In the introduction to The Picador Book Of Modern Indian Literature, which he edited, Chaudhuri talks about literature from India being typecast in this manner:

Rushdie’s style, robustly extroverted, rejecting nuance, delicacy and inwardness for multiplicity and polyphony, and moreover, the propensity of his imagination towards magic, fairy tales and fantasy, and the apparent non-linearity of his narratives- all these are seen to emblematic of non-Western modes of discourse, of apprehension, that is at once contemporaneously post-colonial and anciently, inescapably Indian.”

Chaudhuri himself is one of the strongest counter-voices in this discourse, a bona fide original in a sea of indistinguishable voices. In his subsequent novels like Afternoon Raag, or most recently, The Immortals, he has realized the promise that his first novel so amply displayed. For the sake of symmetry, we shall turn, once again, to Saul Bellow in order to better comprehend the effect that Chaudhuri’s writing has on the reader who cares to listen:

I feel that art has something to do with the achievement of stillness in the midst of chaos. A stillness which characterizes prayer, too, and the eye of the storm. I think that art has something to do with an arrest of attention in the midst of distraction.”

Monday 21 January 2013

In conversation with William Dalrymple





(originally published here at The Sunday Guardian)

Ambrose Bierce, legendary satirist and one of the pioneers of the American short story, once said, "God alone knows the future, but only a historian can alter the past." Now, 'Bitter Bierce' might sound like he was on one of his riffs about the fundamentally malicious nature of man, but he's more accurate than you would think at first. (My own understanding of the Second World War is inevitably caught up with William Shirer) Consider the fact that for most people, history is restricted to phantom pages from the schoolbooks of Christmas Past. Consider also, that if your childhood was anything like mine, those books are abysmal, soporific affairs. (Mine had a page-length photograph of Lenin... with just a paragraph or two of text to go with it.) I think you're getting my drift by now.

This is precisely where a writer like William Dalrymple steps in. His books like The Last Mughal and The White Mughals are now staples; rather uniquely, they are bestsellers and acknowledged classics in India. When I started living by myself in Delhi, there was a moment when I remarked excitedly (not to mention redundantly) to a friend, "That is straight out of City of Djinns!"

Dalrymple's latest book Return of a King deals with the First Afghan War (1839-42), and paints an unforgettable portrait of Shah Shuja, (grandson of Ahmed Shah Abdali and head of the Sadozai clan) among other characters. Return of a King is full of vivid little character sketches, perhaps essential for a story like this, overflowing with characters like a Tolstoy novel. Quintessential Dalrymple lines like "The meticulous but merciless Major-General George Pollock, commander of the Army of Retribution which laid waste to south-eastern Afghanistan and burned Kabul to the ground." Because the First Afghan War has been much better-documented than some of his other subjects (like the White Mughals), are these little flourishes even more important? "Being well-documented is not the same as being well-studied," he says, in a typically measured response, before elaborating. "This particular war has been very well-documented by British sources. They have reconstructed the war to an incredible level of detail. But there's little else, really. There haven't been too many attempts to record the other side's story, so to speak. And the story itself is so strong; you have to be a pretty boring writer to screw this up."

One often reads about novelists and poets complaining about how the conception of their next book is the most enjoyable stage of work, and how the actual writing itself is a pain. Is the conception or ideating process analogous to research for a non-fiction writer? "Absolutely, yes. The first bit (of the writing) is the most painful. Once the first hundred or so pages are out of the way, its fun. Research is the thrilling part. For this book, it was an unforgettable experience to go to Afghanistan and Poland."

For the last five years, though, Dalrymple the literary gadfly has been as much (if not more) in the limelight as Dalrymple the historian. As co-director of the Jaipur Literature Festival (along with Namita Gokhale), he has weathered the Salman Rushdie storm in addition to staring down several other controversies. In January last year, Hartosh Singh Bal wrote a stinging article in Open, where he pinpointed Dalrymple as being symptomatic of the Indian literary community's 'colonial hangover', calling him "the pompous arbiter of literary merit in India". The most infamous paragraph in Bal's piece took a thinly-veiled swipe at Dalrymple, saying, "A residence in Golf Links or a farmhouse in Mehrauli is perhaps not the best beginning to an Indian sojourn, especially when you add to this a lack of knowledge of a local language and easy access to the people who frequent the Niira Radia tapes, but it has its comforts." Dalrymple replied with an article of his own, to which Bal wrote a reply as well. As we sit sipping chai in the aforementioned Mehrauli farmhouse, I ask him what he feels about the whole thing, now that the dust has settled down. "I think it was a tactical mistake to reply there," he says with a hearty laugh. "I think I pointed quite a few people to the original article that way. Hartosh was and is a friend, but the allegations in that article were frankly ridiculous. We (the Jaipur Literature Festival) have always had a healthy mix; two-thirds Indian writers and one-third writers from the rest of the world."

Polemics like Bal's are one thing, but how does Dalrymple deal with critics, especially the ill-informed, hack-tivist kind? Sounding philosophical, he says, "It's a bit of a lucky draw there. There's a small group of Indian critics who are unbelievably good, like Jai Arjun Singh, Chandrahas Choudhury, Nilanjana Roy and Supriya Nair. From there, it's a massive drop, a mess really. You never know if you are getting a well thought-out review or a moronic rant from someone with an axe to grind. If you're unlucky, you could get eviscerated. Luckily, the new book has been reviewed by a surprising number of people who actually know their Afghanistan." Dalrymple looks restless now, fidgeting with the ends of his kurta. His daughter's History homework beckons and he would like to help her as soon as he can. I ask him what he would do if given the charge to redesign the History curriculum in schools across the country.

"I don't know whether it's the textbooks, or the way of teaching," he says. "I would definitely make history more biographical, especially for young children. I think the Indian concept of building a social or political history through history schoolbooks is flawed and ill-suited to teaching kids." A smiling boy with braces walks into the room; it's his son. As I prepare to take his leave, Dalrymple delivers a parting shot. "People often forget that the word 'story' is hidden in 'history'."



Sunday 12 August 2012

Beyond confines: The relevance of genre fiction in India


(Stephen King, one of my favorite writers and a frequent target for critics attacking 'genre fiction'.)

(Originally published here at The Sunday Guardian)
Michael Chabon, the American author who won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 2001, once said, in the foreword for The Best American Short Stories 2005: "Entertainment means junk. But maybe the reason for the junkiness of so much of what pretends to entertain us is that we have accepted — indeed, we have helped to articulate — such a narrow, debased concept of entertainment. . . . I'd like to believe that, because I read for entertainment, I write to entertain. Period."
Somehow, in our mad rush for categorising everything into neat little boxes, we've lost sight of what exactly it is that whets our appetite for good writing. Everything is high-brow, or low-brow; there are no prisoners taken in this all-important game of nomenclature. If you're not a practitioner of the hallowed 'literary fiction' section of the bookshelf, you're not worth a second thought. And if you're a 'genre fiction' writer, you're a feeble-minded sell-out to the much-hated market forces; the worst kind of populist there exists.
Last week, debutante author Jugal Mody's novel Toke was released by Harper Collins.Toke is the story of a bunch of stoners who try to save the word from a zombie apocalypse, all in the process of "smoking a lot of good shit". Now, this may not sound earth-shattering for followers of 'literary fiction writers or readers', but Mody is unconcerned. In his own words, "At some point of time, fiction started to get divided and categorised. It became all about placing books into various classes like drama, comedy and so on." Mody, who counted The Faculty and Pineapple Express among his influences, began writing his stoner-zombie novel in 2009. "One reason why I always liked old Bollywood movies was that they are really hard to pin down into any one genre. They'd be equal parts comedy, drama, action... you couldn't really classify them into a particular genre, they're just a wholesome product," said Mody.
There are other, mostly economic reasons behind this rush to 'place' books into a particular category. Author Manjula Padmanabhan has written books for both children and adults; her 2008 book Escape defied these convenient tags. While having overt science fiction sensibilities, it was recognised by several notable critics as being very much a part of 'literary fiction'. As Padmanabhan clarifies, the reasons behind this nomenclature are very often economical. "Children's books are often more expensive for publishers to print than books for adults. Also, the space for literature in Indian life is minuscule as it is. When there's just a column's width of words of any kind to spare on books, editors are bound to promote high-minded and intellectual titles in order to catch the interest of buyers who have money to spare on buying books," she said.
Which isn't to say that genre fiction writing isn't good business. In the wake of Chetan Bhagat's success, there has been a glut of mostly romantic coming-of-age stories written by young Indian authors, like Tushar Raheja, whose book Anything For You, Ma'amsoared to the top of the bestsellers list, despite being panned by a large section of critics for being too hackneyed and juvenile. However, books like Raheja's did manage to strike a chord with a lot of readers. As Padmanabhan said, "I believe the majority of young readers today really don't have the vocabulary or patience to read the older kind of novel but why should they? Today's young person thinks in phone-text abbreviations, not full sentences or properly spelt words. So they'll buy books that reflect their speech."
Mody was of the opinion that books such as these had managed to achieve something very, very important – getting people to pick up a book, people who'd hitherto eschew reading altogether in favour of other, more immediate sources of entertainment. In his own words, "I grew up in a Gujarati family and was hence exposed to a lot of Gujarati pulp fiction writers, some of whom still sell a lot of books today. Writers like these have gotten a lot of young people to start reading for the first time, and a lot of these readers moved on to much better writers."
In the interests of a healthier and more inclusive literary environment, it's perhaps advisable to keep an open mind and not seek to pre-judge books on their descriptions. It's better, after all, to read good fiction, rather than reading 'literary' or 'genre' fiction.

Sunday 29 July 2012

The Imaginarium of Mister Dickens





(Originally published here at The Sunday Guardian)

“The intense pursuit of any idea that takes complete possession of me is one of the qualities that make me different — sometimes for good; sometimes I dare say for evil — from other men.”
                                                --Letter from Charles Dickens to his wife, December 5, 1853

Charles Dickens, circa 1841, was certainly writing like a man possessed. After the raging success of the serialised novel Pickwick Papers (the last instalment of which appeared in 1837), the young writer now had a devoted readership. In the years 1837-1840, Dickens wrote both Nicholas Nickleby and the much-loved Oliver Twist, which was the first Victorian novel to have a child protagonist. In April 1840, the first instalment of his new book The Old Curiosity Shop came out in the short-lived weekly Master Humphrey’s Clock.

The characters in the novel soon became wildly popular, in particular the heroine Nell Trent, an angelic, virtuous orphan ‘of not quite fourteen’. As the story drew towards its end, a strange and wondrous thing began to be noticed, something which underlined the frenzied fan following enjoyed by Dickens. Impatient to find out the fate of their beloved Nell, his American fans would throng the New York dockyards, shouting out to incoming ships the one question which mattered to them- “Is Little Nell dead?”  

2012 marks the birth bicentenary of Charles Dickens- Two hundred years since he was born; a “very small and not-over-particularly-taken-care-of boy", in his own words. His books have never gone out of print, his star has never looked like dimming and his characters have become dictionary entries. A Tale of Two Cities has sold more than 200 million copies worldwide, making it the bestselling novel of all time, across genre, as writer David Mitchell observed in a 2010 article. Works such as A Christmas Carol, David Copperfield and Great Expectations have enthralled generation after generation of readers, and spawned scores of film, television and theatrical adaptations around the world.

What is it about Dickens that makes his legacy such an enduring one? Sudeep Chakravarti (author of the novel Tin Fish as well as non-fiction books like the acclaimed Red Sun: Travels in Naxalite Country) says, “I actually read Dickens translated into Bangla before reading him in English. I found his stories to be gripping, and I liked the fact that they weren’t preachy. I also liked that they travelled up and down the social and economic ladder, painting characters and situations unflinchingly. Reading Dickens as a child, I found some of these situations to be shocking—but they turned my head!

Chakravarti was one of the five Indian writers who wrote essays for the British Council India blog earlier this year- A series called ‘What Would Dickens Write Today’, part of the Indian wing of Dickens 2012, their international celebration of his birth bicentenary. The British Council has been coordinating with 50 countries for various educational and cultural events. These included reading sessions with noted authors, screening of Dickens adaptations and also organising creative writing competitions for writers aged 16-21 who submitted pieces inspired by Dickens. The Indian leg of the festivities kicked off at the Kolkata Book Fair in January, where author Vikram Seth interacted with youngsters at the BC Reading Room.    

At the event, Seth was in his elements, waxing eloquent about Dickens, a writer he was frequently compared to after A Suitable Boy- His magnum opus which brought a very Dickensian social realism to an ensemble cast in newly-independent India. “Dickens was not allowed to have (writer’s) blocks”, Seth said. “He had a magazine, which he ran, where he had to produce a certain number of pages every week. Now, the interesting thing about this way of writing- a few pages at a time- is that the audience is waiting. It’s like a serial, say the Mahabharata or the Ramayana; you want to know what’s going to happen next week. People would be absolutely salivating…”   

Seth was echoing the sentiments of the anxious Americans who shouted at incoming ships, demanding to know Little Nell’s fate. However, another, contrasting aspect of Dickens (and every other truly great author) worth pondering upon is the repeat value of his books- If we read and re-read a work, it’s only because it offers enough by way of the familiar, which welcomes us back like an old friend; and the unfamiliar, which draws us inwards, riding on our intrigue, our bewilderment. Even the weakest of Dickens’ works have healthy doses of both. Author Anita Nair highlighted this duality thus- “One of the first Charles Dickens works I read as a child was A Christmas Carol, and I was fascinated by the food descriptions; the turkey, the Christmas feast and so on. Through these passages, food turned into something else”, she said, before adding, “Reading the book became a Christmas tradition for me.”

How do you pick your favourite Dickens character? Here was a writer who could conjure up memorable people (and I say people, not characters) with a few deft brushstrokes. Author Anjum Hasan says, “Dickens' characters have a great capacity for suffering and yet there is always something around the corner that's going to cheer them up. They suffer but they are not sorrowful, at least not his heroes and heroines. I loved that and identified with it when I first read his work.”  Is it Fagin the Jew, then, or Sidney Carton, the ultimate tragic hero? Miss Havisham perhaps or Mr. Bucket, that prince among pre-Sherlock sleuths? I found myself agreeing with Anita Nair when she opined, “Uriah Heep (from Great Expectations) is one of the finest characters in all of literature, along with Nabokov’s Humbert Humbert.”

Nabokov, incidentally, taught a course called Masters of European Fiction at Cornell for almost ten years, where he gave a series of memorable lectures on writers like Gogol, Flaubert, Jane Austen and yes, Dickens. To read his dazzling deconstruction of Dickens’ method is a sheer delight, and we shall turn to him, at last, to better understand this magician’s sleights-of-hand. “Despite certain faults in the telling of his story, Dickens remains, nevertheless, a great writer. Control over a considerable constellation of characters and themes, the technique of holding people and events bunched together, or of evoking absent characters through dialogue- In other words, the art of not only creating people but keeping created people alive within the reader’s mind throughout a long novel- this, of course, is the obvious sign of greatness.”

Charles Dickens did not always have a happy life. By all accounts, his childhood was far from merry. As an adult, he had a large family to support which kept him on his toes, writing feverishly. In middle age, he fell in love with an 18-year-old actress and subsequently separated from his wife, something which earned him considerable disrepute in conservative, Victorian England. But through all of this, he maintained a prolific output, producing one gem after another. As Karl Marx put it, Dickens "issued to the world more political and social truths than have been uttered by all the professional politicians, publicists and moralists put together". While the man himself might have made a drily funny remark or two about his misfortunes, for his countless readers across the planet, the first lines of A Tale of Two Cities sum up the Dickens era best: "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."







            

In conversation with Aman Sethi





(Originally published here at The Sunday Guardian) 

Aman Sethi starts explaining the finer points of the migrant labour situation in Delhi, and promptly cuts himself off. He’s not happy with something he has just said. “Terrible way to start a sentence...” he says. To be honest, it did not feel terrible and Sethi’s nothing if not compelling with his arguments. But you understand where he’s coming from. His debut book A Free Man, published in September last year has its paperback edition out on 3 August and is marked by its obsessive attention to detail, its unflagging quest for precision.

One of the most distinguished works of non-fiction in recent years, A Free Man follows the life of Mohammed Ashraf, an itinerant labourer at Delhi’s Bara Tooti Chowk. A Free Man has been termed ‘novelistic’ by certain reviewers, something which Sethi takes with a pinch of salt. “The moment you try to write a halfway decent sentence, your book is deemed to be ‘novelistic’, which is neither correct nor fair. I wasn’t trying to write a novel, I was just trying to make sure the writing was good.”

The book is also notable for its unwavering focus on the lives of Ashraf and his friends at Bara Tooti Chowk, avoiding the quote-unquote Big Narrative; a sweeping, wide-angle view of the socio-economic mechanisms of a city. (Think Suketu Mehta’s Maximum City or Peter Ackroyd’s London) Another recent book which shares this microscopic approach is Katharine Boo’s Behind the Beautiful Forevers, about the Annawadi slum area in Mumbai. “Katherine Boo and I actually have the same editor, Chiki Sarkar at Random House. So we ended up reading each other’s books; I reviewed Behind the Beautiful Forevers for The Hindu. It’s a brilliant work, a book which was just waiting to be written,” says Sethi. “Ever since the start of the New Journalism movement of the 60s, unconventional techniques have been used by writers like Tom Wolfe and Truman Capote, but for some reason this hasn’t really been explored in Indian writing.”

The linguistic style employed by Sethi in A Free Man is certainly unconventional, a freewheeling mixture of English interspersed with the vernacular tilts of Ashraf and his fellow labourers. At one point, Ashraf says, “There is something Delhi can give you- a sense of azadi, freedom from your past.”  In another sequence, Kaka the tea-seller of Bara Tooti exclaims angrily, “It’s because of you bhenchods. All day long you chootiyas smoke ganja and then complain that the chai is pheeka!” Sethi explains his decision thus: “When I started speaking to Ashraf and the others at Bara Tooti, I saw that their Hindi was flawless. So on one hand, I had this great, evocative vernacular stuff, which I didn’t want to lose out on, but then I couldn’t really write an entire book in Hindi. And I feared that if I left out the vernacular elements completely, it’d be impossible to distinguish Ashraf from Lalloo or Kaka- They’d all sound like me!”

A Free Man does not take the formally easy path that non-fiction books take all too frequently; a philosophy which can be summed up in a line: ‘This is what’s wrong, and here’s how we can make things better.” Instead, it tries, in the author’s own words, “to capture the texture of lived reality.” According to him, this was an easy call to make. “I thought it would be better to think about Ashraf’s world and try to capture it as accurately as possible, rather than self-flagellate as a member of the elite middle-class. The initial drafts of the book were full of rage, but I realised that me feeling bad did not interest even me anymore.”

So is a work of fiction in the offing anytime soon? “I don’t think I’ll be writing fiction right now,” says Sethi. “I actually had a sort of late introduction to the canonical works of fiction. I haven’t really read a lot of Indian fiction, but somehow it seems to me a way of retreating from the real world. And why would I want to do that? I find the real world to be a fascinating place.”